ann's rants

The State of Our Union

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Mr Husband, Mr Son, Mr. Smaller Son, Distinguished Fur Bastard:

We gather tonight knowing our years of investment and service to The Imig family Home. Sixteen years of coupledom, 7 and 5 years of boychildren, and 15 years (7 of 9 feline lives) respectively. For the first time in years there are no Imigs leaving weapons of mass destruction in basement corners or under furniture, and our house is more respected and safer for unsuspecting playdates and their parents.

We began as a duo, traversing the North Side of Chicago. From my first apartment above a crack-den on State and Division, to our thrift store love nest in Wriglyville beneath the El train, through to our first mortgage--a condo in Edgewater filled with wedding registry items and an infant son—we nested. And on to our single family home in Madison, Wisconsin: Our current state.

These achievements are a testament to the courage, selflessness, and
teamwork of two now far away, but once-shiny human beings—who spent weekends scouring garage sales and second-hand stores for eclectic furniture, invested months in careful (him) leather vs. (her) shabby shic furniture debate, only to lay down thousands of dual-income-no-kids dollars in a matter of minutes in one grand Room & Board surrender at the turn of the millennium. Who lovingly selected the exact shade of Cafe Latte: Benjamin Moore 1054. Who framed, leveled, and hung photos, nay who read Dwell magazine and went forth to purchase fabric and stretch it over frames for headboards!

Imagine what we could accomplish if we followed their example. Think about the Imig household Design Within Reach.

We can do this. I know we can because we've done it before. Six years ago we purchased this homestead. Preschooler notwithstanding and I with child, we paint-chip spelunked, taped and rolled once again. Mr. Husband you re-habbed our entire basement—learning to drywall and electrify. How you sconced! Finding no affordable aesthetically-suitable bed for our children, to The Depot you strode with our stationwagon chariot. Not satisfied with just any board you looked through each maple slab, until you found the perfectly knotted platform for our children to slumber and nut-noogie each other upon.

The defining issue of our time is how to keep that promise alive. When did we stop seeing the pliers on our toaster oven knob? When will one of our guests fall through our splintering pleather too-good-to-be-true-Eames-style bar chairs? When, O when will we ever replace our Ikea ready-framed wall art?

Let's remember how we got here: It began with scotch tape and coloring pages with one spasm of pencil in one torn corner we could not part with. Milk drained out of sippy cups, while leaky children mocked upholstery protection lifetime guarantees. Pee splattered with abandon upon drywall. Guys were drawn in ink in places no guys belonged. We stopped seeing shoe prints on walls, toothpaste on comforters, and whatever in God's name sullied the shower curtain waffle weave.

That doesn't make sense. It was wrong. It was irresponsible.

We've curio-ed a broken VCR for five years. Only one cloudy low-ball resides where a set of eight once sparkled. Our bathmats have become hazmats, our bedroom is feng-shcrewed. Those are the facts.

The message is simple. Stop not seeing shit. We can do better.

Each time I look at our shredded mattress cover, I’m reminded that our domestic destiny is stitched together like when I used to taper my own jeans with safety pins. No one built this single family residence on their own, and no one—not even the youngest two males present—destroyed it on their own. This house is great because we arranged it together. This nest is great because we worked as a team. This crib is great because we get each others backs and can finally get most of the pee in the toilet most of the time.

And if we hold fast to that truth, in this moment of trial, there is no challenge too great; no mission too hard--no ceramic planters on our stoop we can't dump after three years of welcoming our guests with potted dirt and weeds. As long as we are joined in common purpose, as long as we maintain our common resolve, and get more gorgeous furniture from my mom like that buffet she gave us last month, as long as we could maybe register again--our journey moves forward, and our future is hopeful, and the state of our Union will always be strong and decreasingly smell of urine.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless Our Imig Home.

13 Seconds of My Family

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 02:10:00 +0000

Beware the retractable key chain...

(if you can't see the video, click here.)

Jayne of In Jayne's World Congratulations, you win a copy of Keija Parssinen's The Ruins of Us!! Email me your mailing address and she'll get it to you. Thanks everyone for your comments!

Dear Ann Krinsky Age Twenty

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 12:03:00 +0000

A version of this letter appeared as a feature for Brava Magazine last spring. My girlfriends are especially on my mind and in my heart right now, so I thought I’d share it…

Dear Ann Krinsky Age Twenty rehearsing a monologue,

How are you Ann Krinsky? The UW theater department smells exactly the same 17 years later—of burnt microwave popcorn, bare feet, and creative desperation. Nice suspender pants, by the way. Very The Limited-does-Annie Hall.

I see you working diligently on your audition monologue for The Fantasticks. **Spoiler alert** you get the part. In fact, we could name 1994-1996 Krinsky Princesses On Ice for all the ingénues you play. Get this--in five short years you win the ultimate princess role of Bride to Ben-The-Drummer.

Ann Krinsky you look a bit wan. Yes, I said wife in five years. Believe me, he's not ready for you yet either. A redheaded non-Jew, not-quite-Democrat, Ben-The-Drummer currently resides in a Colorado basement. I only tell you this because I want you to know your life's most meaningful roles require no audition or casting. Not set to a score, or played out on a stage--your most prized roles are within the ensemble of your family and your life-long friends.

Your roommates in the apartment on West Washington Avenue--Erin and Maria--and the rest of the girls from your grade school group maintain your friendship over decades. Together you traverse career fall out, the quarter-century-freak out, career purgatory, pregnancies lost, new babies, no sleep, sick parents, marriage, graduate school, divorce, bad haircuts and biological clocks. You form a Greek Chorus of sorts, calming the Medea-of-the week from slaying her young with Turn on PBS Kids, I'll be right over with a bottle of wine.

I realize this might not resonate with you right now—as your biggest priority is perfecting your Cockney dialect, but these women become a constant in your life. They serve as your compass as you strive to put a label on Who You Are. How I wish you could know now how unimportant that is compared with who you're with.

You will spend years questioning yourself and your actress-turned-sales executive-turned-social-worker-slash-mother-turned-blogger-slash-writer-path. Yes, sales executive. In five years not only do you wed, but you also begin a career in advertising sales. Am I scaring the suspenders off of you, Ann Krinsky Age Twenty? Have faith. These skills you learn in theater bring you far—taking direction, improvisation, and especially the use of eyeshadow to make your nose appear smaller. I just killed your theater career dreams, didn't I. Don't cry Ann Krinsky Age Twenty. Use this devastation in Shakespeare class. You need it. Your childhood fared too comfortably for this serious acting business. Save those tears for ad sales. You'll be selling Dr. Laura. I'll leave it at that.

Let me take your shoulders and look you in the eye, and after we play a round of mime “mirrors” I will say yes Ann Krinsky Age Twenty you have talent. You have a lovely singing voice and stage personality, but the friendships you began in childhood, and that you keep rehearsing, become some of your most beautiful arias, highest hitch-kicks and most moving soliloquies. You never win a Tony, but you win an Erin, a Maria, a Megan—in fact, too many beloved friends to list. Competing for and winning Leading Lady feels so important to you right now, but the light these women bring to your life endures much longer than any spotlight.

These friends love you and celebrate you for being Ann Krinsky, they never leave you craving more applause, better reviews, or the next gig. Simply, your friendships nudge you toward authentic Ann, and away from actress Ann. This does not mean you never find yourself on the stage again, only that you need not find a stage to find yourself.

Well, I've got to go pick up your future children at school, and you--to your vocal glides. Some quick advice: Take full advantage of your roommates' wardrobes because you will never live with such an array of clothing again. Also, dance the gold unitard off of your role in A Chorus Line. Soon you'll move to Chicago and go to your first professional musical theater dance audition, after which you will change your resume from actor/singer/dancer to actor/singer/moves well and ultimately to actor/singer/…claps.

Fondly,

Ann Imig, Age 37

***

“The Ruins of Us” BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Today is the release date for Keija Parssinen’s stunning debut novel The Ruins of Us. I had the privilege of previewing The Ruins of Us because I have a very fancy friend who happens to play chalupa to Keija’s chimichanga (Translation: Tarja —author of The Flying Chalupa—is Keija Parssinen’s sister).

Dudes? Keija writes literature. I spend a lot of time bulldozing through contemporary humor, and I loved settling into her elegant prose and fascinating plot line (my heart was pounding so hard I had to put it down at one point—no lie). In celebration of her release date I'll pick a winner at random from the comments and Keija will send you a copy (Continental US only please).

The novel is set in Saudia Arabia on an oil compound—first read a bit about Keija and Tarja’s upbringing as expats in Saudi Arabia here.

Here are just the top three Editorial reviews posted on Amazon:

“A compelling debut.” (Marie Claire (UK) )

“Parssinen’s gripping, well-crafted debut tracks the awakening of a Saudi Arabian family to the dangers that lurk within. . . . Parssinen deftly illuminates Saudi Arabian life through a family locked in a battle over morality and cultural chasms.” (Publishers Weekly )

“Parssinen convincingly inhabits the shifting moods of her characters. . . . Throughout, her prose is artful without being showy, forced, or melodramatic, and her knowledge of Saudi culture informs the story. . . . A fine debut.” (Kirkus Reviews )

Congratulations, Keija!!

My Shortcomings Catalog: A Focus on Musical Constipation

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 16:13:00 +0000

I have a long list of shortcomings. Not curious about things I’m not already passionate about, I’m also ignorant about geography, history, and most of The Important Information people learn in school. This, despite the fact I performed well in my studies in excellent schools through 19th grade. I pick at myself, the pantry, and my husband when anxious. I learn only enough about technology to get by (see: my yahoo account). I expect my children to hurry when developmentally they’re programmed to stop getting dressed at underwear and one sock, in order to play with a delivery-pizza plastic center hubcap “sensei” dictating a multi-level journey to his plastic hubcap protégé. In Wolof.

Then comes the problem of music. It rarely occurs to me to put any on, unless I’m in the car. If you only think of music when you’re in the car, your choices become naturally selected: radio with a crappy signal, two scratched “Music Together” children’s music class companion CDs known to impair your driving more than texting (what with the all the triangle and wood block), and whatever decent music your husband left in the car during the past decade. Right now it’s Dylan. See how I said “Dylan” instead of “Bob Dylan” like I meant serious in-group musical business? I nearly spelled him Bob Dillan, honest to God.

When someone else turns on music in my company I think Wow. Music... I should play that! A year ago I discovered Pandora and felt musically Roto-rooted for an invigorating three weeks. Then I lost the password. Password loss indifference falls just below musical constipation in my catalog of shortcomings.

My iPod is so busy updating free NPR podcasts it wouldn’t recognize a riff if Terri Gross shredded it herself. Riff! Shred! Serious in-group musical business.

Worse even, Husband now suffers musical-constipation-by proxy. He played drums in shows all over Chicago in the 1990s: The Double Door, The Metro, The House of Blues—Billy Corgan even spent a day recording his band! (Name dropping comes after password loss indifference, but above repeating things I’ve said that made one person laugh once in my catalog of shortcomings). When we met, he lived out west and still loved Phish. In Chicago we both traveled a Rufus Wainwright phase together, and then he got really into Jazz on Vinyl. “Vinyl!” Serious. In group. Musical Business.

I love music. I Swear. I sing along with most every song that comes on our crappy car radio—at least the chorus, with the wrong lyrics, and in perfect harmony which would be a lot less embarrassing if I were being ironic. I love to get on a dance floor and get DOWN. But I am musically constipated and I blame showtunes. I recently heard that the music we most remember/identify with is that which we listened to at age 14. Did I read that on your blog Nancy Davis Kho? Well at age 14 I basically wanted to be the next Disney Ingénue more than I wanted a cruise to Acapulco AND a real boyfriend to give me a Black Hills Gold heart-shaped garnet ring. But instead of a ravishing Jewish Ingénue, Disney gave us Fievel, and I listened to Somewhere Out There on repeat and ruined my musical motivation forever.

I need a musical enema. Things have become so dismal I’ve found myself humming along to the Super Mario Galaxy Official Soundtrack by Mario Galaxy Orchestra. I know sometimes drunk drivers or frail elders have a hard time handing over the keys, but I’m begging you. I have good taste, I just lack initiative. Someone take our iPods. Take over my Spotify account, because I don’t want to learn to use it. If you’ll re-constitute our musical stylings, I swear I’ll take better note of the passwords. I’m serious this time. “Stop picking” and “grow learned” are already among my New Year’s Resolutions.

We Are Not International Coffee People

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 16:57:00 +0000

Organic. Fair-trade. Artisan. Hard foam. No foam. Triple Lutz Al Pacino with room. Today's gourmet coffee obsession focuses on supersonic Mach-3 beans, and an order as complex and individualized as a strand of your DNA--requiring a Bachelor of Barista.

Remember when coffee considered “fancy” came flavored and scooped out of a rectangular tin? It wasn’t just coffee. Actually, it wasn’t even coffee, but one part coffee-per-million Swiss mocha cremains. Whatever International Coffee lacked in taste, our generational palate was too young and ignorant to notice the difference. Come to think of it, maybe no real-life adults drank International Coffee. Maybe, for those of us with the inherited coffee gene, it allowed us to feel coffee mature--bridging the chasm between coffee ice cream and our parents' Folgers. Anyway, people didn't drink International Coffee for the taste of the coffee, but for that International Coffee Moment.

If you watched enough 1980s television, you know that International Coffee People didn't swig from a reusable BPA-free pony keg on their morning commute, but rather imbibed with slow, smiling, celebratory sips from a 6-ounce porcelain teacup—carefree pinkies raised—among their girlfriends and wearing freshly popped collars or a “still fits!” old prom dress. Whether the kids had each other bound and gagged in the attic, or your boss held on to your shoulder pads a little too longingly that afternoon, International Coffee promised soft light, intimacy, laughter, and perfectly ven-diagrammed eyeshadow. World-weary? Busted by your parole officer? Having another psychotic break? International Coffee brought serenity and festive banter. Just take a load off with your spouse or gal pals (and your most intimate confidant the camera man/television viewing audience) sip some International Coffee, and start giggling over the new love of your life— Double Dutch Chocolate now only 70 calories with 100% Nutrasweet. International Coffee became the Calgon, Take Me Away! of beverages.

My girlfriend told me that when she and her husband were looking for their first home, she would relate to each room according to beverage; Wow, I can totally see myself sitting in that breakfast nook with my morning coffee or This porch swing begs for an afternoon cup of tea. No, she did not say to herself Let's spend 19 hours painting the nursery and then watch our 8 month-old spontaneously combust during a diaper change, while I cry into my wine, or I can just imagine myself chain-smoking in this bathtub after 17 sleepless months with a toddler and an infant.

Then it hit me.

We are a generation trying forever in vain to recreate International Coffee moments. As we age and spawn, we're forced to marry the reality of our cat-puked stained carpet and pliers-where-a-knob-once-was toaster ovens with all those manufactured moments 1980s television buried into our young psyches.

In my home, when our kids’ bedtimes drone on, the television audience won't see teaspoons stirring in bone china, feet cozying up on ottomans, and chuckling between my Husband and I. We will not be freshly-creased and belted at the waist. You will likely find us without appropriate undergarments. “We” in fact might mean my laptop and I hermiting in the bedroom under two down comforters—my husband in a hotel in a distant city where consultants live four days per week. After the children finally settle (due only to Threat level Code Fuchsia: Never Wii Again), and on nights when my Husband lives in our house, he might emerge after 45-minutes of power-leaf-blowing outside or any variety of white-noise aggression-reducing activities in the basement to meet my laptop and I in the bedroom. Depending on our mood, we may engage in passionate couple's blank stares followed by tantric meal planning and school pickup/drop-off coordinating. If any beverages are consumed, they are of the category only permitted to people over 21.

With the exception of reality-TV personalities, most of us have grown and come to realize there is no camera and no viewing audience (thank God). While poignant moments with loved ones and lively conversation among friends occurs, it doesn't typically coincide with anything freeze-dried, flavored, and in a quadrilateral. Maybe in adulthood our generation—in creating and living our own authentic moments—expects more actual coffee from our coffee. As we come to grips with the fact that we are not International Coffee People, but exhausted fallible middle-aged people with unwanted hair, living at best among happy--if sticky--shambles, we at least want real coffee. We want good coffee, strong coffee and plenty of it.

New Years Resolutions 1990!

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 04:05:00 +0000

By THE HIGH SCHOOL COLUMNIST WHO IS GOING TO TURN THIS MUTHA OUT IN ‘90!

You are in High School now, Ann Krinsky, and High School means no more bullcrap. Do you understand??? Plus this is an entire new decade and it is just time already. You are no longer a frosh and it is just time!

So, I the first and only Ann Krinsky ever in the history of the universe do solemnly swear to these resolutions:

Tonight I’m going to party like it’s 1999! HA. J/K J/K Just kidding.

Seriously. Seriously now. I’m totally serious.

Stretch every morning and every night or you will never finally be able to do the splits. At least one side! COME ON!

Never comment on people’s jeans when they don’t tight-roll. You ruined your chances forever with Mike when you guys were on the risers and you mentioned he really needed to tight-roll his cuffs. WAY TO GO ANN. He was the only new and remotely cute guy and he was even in choir and now he hates you. But in my defense they practically looked like bell bottoms. Still. Remember in Less Than Zero when Jami Gertz spits at herself in the bathroom mirror because she is totally disgusted with herself once again? That is what you should do if you ever tell another soul to tight-roll his jeans. You have been warned, Ann Krinsky! You have been warned.

Remember not to flip your hair on the first floor. Sharon Carter and those girls almost kicked your ass last time.

Please finally understand how to get zit free.

Start an En Vogue group. Everyone said how awesome you and Sarah sounded in your duet of Somewhere Out There when we both sang out to the audience as individuals and not as Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt lezzies to each other. It is time to focus on your singing career. The West High stage is not Broadway, but even if it kind of is and even if you’re probably definitely talented enough, West High does not last forever! THANK GOD except there is no Fine Arts Week in real life! Oh MY God I am basically freaking myself out now. OH WOW Thanks so much Resolutions, NOT! (You so are welcome, Ann Krinsky!) HA HA HA J/K J/K J/K

If Jami Gertz played a model in Less Than Zero and sometimes people say you look like Jami Gertz, maybe that means you could even model. But all the cute boys want to kiss her in the movie, and no one wants to kiss you except every single nerd on the planet.

THAT REMINDS ME. Tell Craig he has to decide if you are friends or more than friends. Stop waiting around forever Ann. Camp is not reality. You need to move on. I know I need to move on but I cannot get over him because HE IS SO HOT. Like Ed Ollager hot, but nicer and Jewish, and not on drugs and lives in Minnesota. Also Craig would never stick his tongue down your throat on a ski hill like Ed Ollager and laugh mean like it was a joke. But actually I wish Craig would and why won’t he. CRAIG GROW UP AND ADMIT THE FEELINGS BETWEEN US. WE ARE LIKE THE PERFECT COUPLE. WHAT THE HELL? “Ooh, such obscene language from such a pristine girl” (From The Breakfast Club, duh.)

Don’t eat your cheese bagel so fast and then beg off everyone else. Same with cinnamon rolls. And gum.

OKAY! HAVE A GREAT YEAR! Now I have to go conjugate my Espanol. Back to life, Back to reality, However do you want me (CRAIG) However do you need me (CRAIG)!

Love,

Jami Gertz. I wish!

###

Thank you SheKnows for recognizing me as one of the Moms That Will Make You Laugh Out Loud. Funny is the goal. Actually, not killing the blog in its sleep is the goal, then funny. Anyway, I’m honored. A lot.

Holiday Yoga: Straw That Broke The Camel's Backbend

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 11:00:00 +0000

The holiday version of a 2009 tandem post with one of my first blog buddies Braja the famous blogging yogini, (and soon-to-be-released international book author). Go visit her blog next to read her corresponding post, okay?

Downward Facing Jowls: A non-express-line asana

Worrier Pose: Knit brow, tense jaw, beat chest, spit over shoulder. Watch out for the litter of infants in Santa hats behind you.

Childish Pose: Hands on hips, jutted lower-lip, eye-roll.

Oh-Joy Breathing: Deep sighs alternating with atonal passive-aggressive Skating Away humming.

Oy-Vey Breathing: Same as above, but shake head and downshift to atonal passive-aggressive Havanagila

Straw That Broke The Camel’s Backbend: Curl up in the middle of the aisle and alternate laughing and crying hysterically. Now is a good time to steal some M&Ms from the bottom candy rack.

Son Salutation: Proceed directly home. Turn on PBS kids for your dependents. Salute. Proceed directly to...

Chattarunga: Phone a friend.

Mountain Pose: Pause momentarily next to laundry hamper. Go directly to some peppermint bark.

Unhappy Mommy Pose: Get in bed, scream BITE ME ONE BILLION DOLLAR HOT WHEELS WALL TRACKS THAT DON'T STICK TO THE WALL mantra into pillow until falling into deep sleep.

Bridge Pose: Grab some retirees and gather around the card table. This is the dream sequence of your practice.

Plank: Breastfeed two boys. Ween. Look at profile in the mirror. You are wide awake now, unfortunately, and in need of some elves for your shelf.

Inversion: Twist someone’s words (an excellent couples pose!)

And finally a resting pose…shhhhhhhut-the-vassan-up-you-were-supposed-to-be-asleep-an-hour-ago

Finish with a cool chamomile and lavender scented Seratonin Specific Reuptake Inhibator.

photos compliments of freedigitalphotos.net

***

Giveaway Winners Announced! Make sure to read all the hilarious "Please Never Buy Me That" items in the comments. Thanks for playing, guys!

1. ElisaMarie you won Ketchup Is A Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves! Email Robin at robinschicks@gmail.com with your mailing address.

2. CommaGirl you won Wanted Cat! Email Marinka at marinkanyc@gmail.com with your mailing address.

3. The Empress you won the LTYM T-shirt! Email me your size, which style, and your mailing address please. annimig@yahoo.com

Happy Holidays, Dear People!!

Please Never Buy Me That! Gift Guide and Giveaway

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 11:00:00 +0000

When Husband and I met, we delighted in playing a window shopping game named Please Never Buy Me That. We lived in a tiny tourist town in Colorado, full of gift shops with presents you'd never want to receive:

"Please never buy me that wooden bear toilet seat cozy."

"Please never buy me that Northwoods-printed flannel Bolero jacket"

"Honey I love you so much. Please never ever buy me that beer stein shaped like a moose butt."

Had my mom known of this game, she might've told me at age 7

"My sweet child, Please never buy me one solitary wine glass for my first post-divorce birthday."

Oh, hindsight.

HOWEVER! Today I present you with my exclusive three-item Please Definitely Buy Me That Gift Guide and GIVEAWAY!

Item 1) Robin O'Bryant's delightful book of essays "Ketchup is a Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves." Do you know Robin from Robin's Chicks? Here's a synopsis: funny, adorable, charming, sweet, funny. Just like her book! Some of Robin's essays will keep Grandma laughing while telling childhood horror stories about you to your kids, while others comfort your first-time-Mom sister-in-law that NO ONE wants their partner and their parent seeing their "Brittany" at the same time. Guess that means you'll need two copies!

Item 2) Humor blogging godddess Marinka and children's book author Peajaye's storybook "Wanted: Cat" about one family's journey through cat adoption. Now, if you feel suspect of my recommending a cat book--what with a cat named "The Fur Bastard" --never fear. A) That's an alias to keep his Google-slate clean and clump-free B) Both Marinka and Peajaye are hilarious. In fact you must go directly to check out their Wanted Cat videos. C) If your kids have been begging you for a cat, maybe a book about a cat will suffice? Maybe?? Redirect. REDIRECT!

Item 3) Swath your entire family in Listen To Your Mother t-shirts. Matching is fun!

Leave a comment telling us the worst Please Never Buy Me That gift you ever received, and each of us will pick a winner and send you our respective Please Definitely Buy Me That Gift. Continental United States only please. Easiest shopping ever!

Probably no one is ever going to want to marry me

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 11:00:00 +0000

By your one and only ever HIGH SCHOOL Columnist you have been missing very much!!

My best friend Meg has a woman that lives at her house. She is a boarder and her name is Norma and she has a huge container of vitamins in her room we get to eat. They taste like Cherry mixed with aluminum foil, but they’re better than nothing. Norma is a lesbian and I’m not even making that up. She is also a psychic for real and she told me I’m going to have to wait until college to have a real boyfriend. I think she’s most likely lying about the college part, because she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings that probably no one is ever going to want to marry me.

Norma knows tarot cards and buys Meg Clinique all the time. Last time she bought her press powder AND a brand new lipstick which I’m never aloud to twist all the way up, because of that one time my hand spazzed and I gouged Meg’s brand new Clinique Babydoll lipstick that cost like twelve dollars. Now I’m going to tell you one weird thing Norma does. One weird thing Norma does is wear a cape instead of a coat. Not even that but she wears a backpack underneath the cape like a hunchback, no offense. IF MEG SAYS ANTHING ABOUT IT SHE WILL COMPLETELY HAVE A COW SO DON’T SAY ANYTHING OKAY? Remember when she went ballistic during the slumber party and started slamming on her floor and then Carrie grabbed a broom and started slamming it back on the ceiling? It was funny but immature.

So my luck is cursed because two nerds who were in love with me freshman year turned hot, and now they will not even look my way twice. Payback’s a bitch, as they say! I KNOW they want me. I KNOW IT EVERY TIME THEY LOOK IN MY EYES. But they go out with other people and never break up, so I don’t even have a chance in hell as they say. Especially after I pushed Alex’s head to the side when he tried to kiss me at the union that summer. People don’t give second chances when you push their head away. HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE’D TURN GORGEOUS AND INTO A BASKETBALL STAR. I’m not Norma. I don’t have the gift of ESP, okay?

God, do you even care? What? Am I just the girl that everyone flirts with in America? Is the only man on earth who will ever want to be my boyfriend Mr. Pervo Accelerated Geometry? I took that class to challenge myself as they say, and a C is the thanks I get. THANK YOU WORLD. He offered to give me special help afterschool. I saw him in the hall and he had a piece of paper with my number in his pocket. TOTAL Chester molester, no offense. He watches me every time I put on lipstick during class, and if I ask a question he kneels curled up right next to my desk on the floor and stares up basically two inches from my face. Graham even says “he’s watching youuuuu.” Graham is not one of the nerds turned hot. Graham is just a choir guy who sits behind me in accelerated geometry. I’m in madrigal choir. You have to audition to be in madrigal choir. It’s not like I’m bragging, but still.

I went out with a guy from another school named Gideon for one week over the summer. My friend Steph met him bagging groceries at Woodman’s. He loves body building and he ended up being a mega Christian. I have to admit he is built and he is a super good drawer. He draws a million sketches of Arnold Schwarzeneggar wearing t-shirts that say JESUS in huge letters across Arnold’s chest. He came to pick me up one night and sat downstairs with my Mom while I was doing my eyeliner. He told her all about this live Jesus nativity show. He was all excited because the sheep’s heads really moved and he said like three times “The sheep’s heads really moved!” and then I had to break up with him immediately. See how it goes?

Probably no one is ever going to want to marry me except Jesus freaks and people before they turn hot. Oh great. NOT. Thanks God, thanks so much once again (no offense).

Dear Trader Joe’s cashier who asked if he could “Sweep me away” to his register:

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 19:00:00 +0000

Two aisles diverged in a tiki-themed check out. And sorry I could not travel both…

I’m caught in limbo between my current queue and your deserted register island.

I nod.

With a smile, you valet park my cart to your aisle.

Can you sweep me away to your register?

Yes.

Absolutely.

Thank you for asking!

Now pay attention. We’ve much to sort out:

First we’ll need to ask your co-workers to keep hiding the matted beanie lobster around the store for my children to seek. Also, we need better prizes than balloons if you want to keep my children occupied. Seven can blow balloons up but not tie them, and Four can cover balloons with spit but not blow them up. If someone blows them up and ties them, the boys will bandy the balloons about the produce section, enjoying unintentional headers from unaware salt and pepper hairdo passersby.

That buys us 10 minutes.

We need to address the absence of treats in the prize basket. The occasional Clementine won’t go very far, but maybe if you break out a 3 pound bag and make the boys peel them, it will prolong their inevitable looting and pillaging of the snack station. It might pay to let them sample the various clam-shelled novelties around the store (one of the boys is gluten intolerant—no worries!). All told, I bet we could have at least an hour before they even notice my absence. Oh, and tell your colleagues never mind the boys scraping frost off the freezer goods and putting it in their mouths—I’ve tried, Lord how I’ve tried.

Now where shall we go, my young friend? I’m not sure what you had in mind, or when we’ll need to return, but as soon as you‘re done ringing me up I’m sure you’ll reveal everything. I love surprises! I’ve never been swept away before. I never even knew I needed it until you asked me just now. Suddenly I wish to remove my bulbous winter hat and let my still-sopping hair loose from its nape-nugget.

Do you have a Vespa? Can we pretend you have a Vespa and that it’s summer on the Amalfi Coast? My sopping wet hair will fly behind us en route to Il Ristorante and I will wear perfectly fitted linen pants that do not look curdled with raisin knees, and a neck scarf that magically does not accentuate the triangle-headed.

Maybe we could go to that ristorante where they have live singing at Hilldale? Usually I find unison community clapping upsetting, but something special happens at that mall—something continental. They have a wide-eyed waiter with excellent pronunciation, and I just know we’d feel very at home there as native Amalfis. I figured him for a vocal major or an international student, but I’m sorry to report that he’s from Neenah, Wisconsin and studies Kinesiology. I bet you’re as disappointed as I was. No capiche!We definitely no capiche, do we? This is our first private joke.

Thank you for bagging everything so nicely—cold with cold, dry with dry. Has the time come to sweep away? I wish I’d put on a little mascara. I’ll just say goodbye to the boys after they return the ~~shin-blasters~~ mini-carts. Any idea of our return, Signore? Why sure I’d love to give you my number on a little golden ticket. Here you go. Wink wink!

Oh.

Dear.

I see.

So, that’s how we end? You’d like me to put my golden ticket in the fishbowl with all 573 other customers you swept away.

No, no cash back today, thank you. Yes, yes of course more stickers. They mash up so nicely in the bottom of my purse. I guess this is goodbye, then. Come along boys. Grab your balloons.

Ciao Bello. We’ll always have Hilldale.

Dude Recipes

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 16:20:00 +0000

My brilliant bloggy friend Tarja, a conceptual humor genius and recent conceptional human genius just had a baby boy named Chimichanga-- “Chimi” for short. Sweet right? Her older son The Flying Chalupa has a baby brother! Ethnic names are in.

We all know how hard it is to prepare meals post-partum, so I thought—given my expertise and renown in food blogging circles—I might share some recipes from my college roommates’ boyfriends circa 1994. So easy. So delicious. All ingredients found at your nearest convenience store/gas station. Hyper local, Dude.

EASY AND DELICIOUS RECIPES FROM MY COLLEGE ROOMMATE’S BOYFRIEND CIRCA 1994:

1. Own a wok.

2. Cook everything in a wok.

3. Stirfry is just like frying. It’s so good, Man. Get a wok.

CLIFF HANGER! (read the rest here)

Thanks for having me Tarja and congratulations again!

Love,

La Imig. Like La Choy, only saltier.

Feeding America

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 02:51:00 +0000

One of the inescapable themes of my writing and tweeting is food—my inability to endure the long haul between breakfast and my 10 AM snack, my fruit leather codependency, and my weakness for any candy you bought with your allowance at age 10, that most grown ups have long forgotten about (Yes, you Gobstoppers! Well okay, Rainblo. Is that you, two-cent Hot Dog gum! I don’t mind if I do, Fizz!)

But I can only joke about food because I can afford to sit around and eat all day. That poor choice is all mine to make! I have never gone hungry. In fact I rarely allow myself that irritating and unnecessary sensation. I come from a long line of frequent feeders—just watch our pincers go.

A parent at school just informed me that the majority—the majority—of families at our neighborhood school make a wage that falls at or below the poverty line. My kids’ classmates are hungry. At school they get free breakfast and lunch, which is good considering one boy in Four’s class showed up with a “candy breakfast” one morning. This is not judging-other-parents time, this is Thank God that federally funded free breakfast and lunch exist time. What happens at dinner? What happens on the weekends? How patient can Mom possibly be if she hasn’t eaten a proper meal all day?

Word magician Jett Superior and Undomesticated Diva are hosting a cause giveaway on their blogs to benefit Feeding America this Thanksgiving Day. After you read Jett’s post, I promise you will want to feed 8 Americans for only $1.00 too.

No more candy breakfasts for growing children. Save the candy breakfasts for people who really need them…Me.

This post is only sponsored by my heart.

Other thankful photos here…

Maps

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 20:40:00 +0000

I just came from breakfast with my ~~Fodder~~ Father at his regular haunt—The Pancake House. We meet there often and each episode follows a similar script:

I drive in the parking lot to see his car already stowed in one of his three usual spaces, park my VW station wagon alongside his Ford sedan (he’s a labor arbitrator, he buys American).

Even when the waiting area is full, the proprietors wave me back “Your Dad’s waiting for you,” and I see him sitting with a cup of coffee, maybe working on the crossword with his reading glasses on, wearing a plaid flannel shirt or short-sleeved button down depending on the temperature. Regardless, he has his check book and a pen in the chest pocket.

After greeting me with a smile and a hug, he marvels over LTYM and this whole internet business. He inquires after my kids, my husband, or my girlfriends he’s known since we were actually girls, and then updates me with the latest casualties from The Saddies.

We often order the same thing; a half order of pecan pancakes and black coffee.

He peppers the rest of our conversation with not-so-quiet observations about other restaurant patrons:

“Is that baby Hindu or do you think that’s just a scab on its forehead.”

“I don’t want to ruin your breakfast, but I have one word for the toddler behind you: Drool.”

He relays moments from his recent work travels:

“These two guys behind me on the plane start singing—well, chanting--and so I ask them why are they chanting? Is it for fun? For religious purposes? What? And they say we just like to chant and I say great. Just what Madison needs! More chanting.”

I double-check “You actually said that to them?” and yes, most of the time he did actually say that to them.

Dad flirts with and teases the waitstaff. Once Mildred tickled his chin after warming up his coffee. This, right after my Dad told me way too much about a pair of 50-year-old women who tried to pick him up on a flight. I’m not sure whether the idea of two women trying to seduce my Dad, the likelihood that they might’ve been serial killer-dominatrices trying to lure him to his demise, or Mildred’s blatant coffee overture--troubled me the most.

He turns 70 next week on Thanksgiving. So odd considering he’s only 43. These regular pancake breakfasts, along with his spontaneous weekend 20 minute stop-overs to see the grandkids, feel like well-worn and dependable routes etched on the map of my life. But—like a childhood full of walks to and from school--the seasons, the time of day, and color of your tights vary. Sometimes my kids join us, sometimes my Dad chooses a half-order of Eggs Benedict English muffin well-done please, and sometimes he muses aloud how it’s tricky enough to recognize someone you haven’t seen in 16 years, but especially when they’re wearing a blonde wig on their head— all while said person may or may not be within earshot.

As much as I loved living in Chicago for 10 years, I always yearned to come back home and raise my kids alongside my family and friends on these familiar and metaphorical streets. We moved back home to Madison in 2006, but if you analyzed where I put the mileage on my car since then, a vast majority were probably spent on the 7-minute drive between my house and my Mom’s.

My Mom and my regular rendezvous also follow a somewhat predictable script. Instead of pancakes, we drink overpriced coffee-house drinks while Four eats more than his share of courtesy candy. We have a late afternoon glass of wine and process about life, while the boys watch Cartoon Network or play board games nearby--all set to the tune of an assortment of ridiculously delicious artisan cheeses. We laugh at ourselves, my mom apologizes again for all the traits I got from her. I compliment her on something I like that she’s wearing and within minutes or days she insists I keep it.

Last night Seven asked me “Mom? When I go to college will you draw me a map so I can get back home?”

I hope by the time my son becomes a young man, that map is already worn with comfortable and familiar paths. If I do my job well, he’ll want to explore secret passageways, and set out to chart his own course. Inevitably he’ll look for short-cuts (we all do). But like his younger brother’s auto-pilot to my bed many nights at 4 am, I hope home remains the true north on his compass—whether that “home” is here, someplace else he settles with his own family or friends, or The Pancake House. God willing it’s here.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Ann’s facebook ticker now with 70% more monotony!

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 21:56:00 +0000

For ~~those of you~~ you there, Suzy Soro, not on facebook—it now has a scrolling feed with moment-by-moment updates of everything your “friends” are doing online—every link people click, articles they read and what they’re listening to online, and of course what they “like.” It’s only a matter of time before facebook starts monotony-harvesting directly from our brains…

Ann is dosing 5 chocolate chips because she’s heard that sucking slowly and mindfully on chocolate can be like methadone for sugar-addicts.

Ann is checking to see if anyone re-tweeted the thing she posted on Twitter about her feeling like a reptile after eating a hard-boiled egg.

Ann’s sense of humor “likes” the thing she posted about her feeling like a reptile after eating a hard-boiled egg.

Ann’s conscience is wondering if she shouldn’t have put all 5 chocolate chips in her mouth at once. She chewed the chocolate chips and now she can’t unchew them and mindfully suck on them until they dissolve. Ann wonders why she always messes with Universe of Chips.

Ann might remove that reptile/hard-boiled egg post from her stream. Ann knew she shouldn’t have used the word “scales” because reptiles don’t exactly have scales. Well they kind of do, but people associate scales with fish, so that is reason enough not to use the word scales. Ann was picturing herself as a snake, unhinging her mouth and gulping down the whole hard-boiled egg while under a heat lamp in her own little terrarium. Wait. Is a snake even a reptile? Ann is pre-google-reflex wondering if a snake is an amphibian.

Ann’s inner ear is listening to a song from Temple which sounds like it should be a Christian song because it involves the words “Great Mighty and Awesome God Supreme.” Ann is not so much listening to the music as trying to exfoliate it from her cerebellum. God Supreme sounds like such a special burger.

Now Ann is watching the words GREAT MIGHTY and AWESOME pop out of her head in individual cartouches. Ann learned the word “Cartouche” from a grade school art teacher she had one year named Anona. She remembers Anona because Anona also taught her the word palindrome. Dude, Anona is a palindrome.

Now Ann is remembering her creepy 7th grade art teacher who pulled her aside after class and asked her about her social life. The Middle School Columnist just popped into Ann’s brain saying What is a social life and why are you asking me this Mr. Hagen? I like how you draw trees but I hate standing here and I can’t even explain to myself why you’re freaking me out big time. If I’m late to Spanish, Sra. Perry is going to have a total cow. Please blink now, Mr. Hagen.

Ann just read the articles: permission slip, class newsletter, stare into space for 3 full minutes at a screen in your periphery.

Ann commented to herself on her own internal status: Well, that’s just dandy, Ann has 15 minutes left until pre-K pick up, no more chocolate chips, and no retweets about hardboiled eggs.

Husband's Holiday Planning Guide

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 11:00:00 +0000

originally posted in 2010

It's November?
It's not even Thanksgiving!
Not at this specific moment.
Mmmmmm Cadbury Eggs
Let me think about it.
I'll call my parents.
When is Christmas this year?
Do we have plans for Thanksgiving?
When is Thanksgiving?
Oh that's right. I'll call my parents.
I'll let you know.
Is this when they sell Cadbury Eggs?
Is this when we have that long dinner with Matzoh balls? Why are we always having that long dinner with Matzoh balls. Will you make extra Matzo balls?
Is it time to go? Let me take a quick shower.
Is it time to go? I'm in the bathroom.
Is it time to go? Where is my festive black knit ski cap I wear indoors and out for 6 months out of the year?
Happy Hanukkah! Do we have anything for the boys?
I'll do it tomorrow
Will there be more mashed potatoes? Can you make a lot? Nobody wants anymore of these, do they?
I ordered fast shipping, so it should arrive on the 27^th.
Happy New Year! It should be here tomorrow.
Let me just call my parents, but not at this specific moment.
Will you get me some Cadbury Eggs?
When's New Years?

***
Do you know Lynn at AllFookedUp? I met Lynn's dry sense of humor at a conference called Blissdom last January. We saw each other again in August at BlogHer--twice in one year--which makes us share-the-womb close in terms of blog relationships. While she's biding her time waiting to become a regular talk show guest, she blogs and writes a weekly column for Bloggy Momazine. Go check out her funny blog and enjoy another post written by Me Husband up at her place today called "Dear Wife" in which ~~I try to warn myself~~ he tries to warn me about himself 15 years too late.

Me and Mayim, Blossom and I

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 02:56:00 +0000

Today I re-shingled our unopened mail heap, only to find Mayim Bialik’s face smiling up at me from the cover of the October/November Hadassah Magazine.

**!!HADASSAH MAGAZINE SPOILER ALERT!!!**

The vast majority of you--being Hadassah magazine aficionados--have obviously read this feature already, but for 1.57 of you who are all Who is Mayim and WTF is Hadassah? Mayim was Blossom from the sitcom Blossom. Mayim is also the Hebrew word for water, and the only Israeli Dance that many Jewish American kids ever learn (because nothing says party like a Jewish rain dance). Hadassah is a famous Hospital in Jerusalem, a National Jewish Women’s Organization, and a series of local hubs for Grandmas and Rugelach. I have a lifetime subscription. Just like all of you.

I approached the feature about Mayim with trepidation and, I soon realized, latent Blossom guilt. In her role of Blossom, Mayim was the first girl child TV star on my radar who looked less like your typical Hollywood ingénue, and more like the spunky sidekick (and not just in an “add glasses to Sarah Jessica Parker” way). Let’s just say that in the world of modeling, Mayim would fall into the “real people model” category, rather than the fashion model category. As Blossom, Mayim appeared real-life post-Bat Mitzvah awkward Jewish Girl, in an especially awkward collection of post-Bat Mitzvah hats.

photo

Post bat-mitzvah and in High School myself, I aged out of the Blossom target audience before the word tween had even surfaced. I didn’t watch the show, and yet her mere existence bugged the ever-living-and-trying-to-assimilate crap out of me. Perhaps she hit a little too close to home?

I never could’ve admitted that then, even to myself. I fashioned myself more Alyssa Milano, less Funny Girl, more Barbara Hershey-The-Wind-Beneath, less Bette Midler-The-Wings--please and thank you very much.

In my 20s I saw Mayim on a “Child Stars: Where Are They Now” reality show. Her “now” featured a clip of her harmonizing with her Hebrew acapella choir, doing that thing that music teachers do, using their hand like a little flipper to indicate the notes ascending or descending. The whole thing made me very uncomfortable. Still—she repelled me. Why? Why? Why? I was too busy going to real people modeling look-sees to bother with analysis.

So now a fully-formed Mom/Jew/Woman, I’m reading about Mayim and experiencing all this guilt about how few props and respect I’ve given her, not to mention experiencing shame for my youthful self-hating-Jew tendencies that I had apparently projected on to poor Mayim/Blossom and even Mayim/Choir director.

I read about her ability to coexist as a feminist and as a “Conservadox” Jew, and about her Vegan Neuroscientist PHD Attachment Parenting Home Schooling Author All-In-A-One-Bedroom-House lifestyle with a TV series in her spare time. Just as my heart grows full of pride for Mayim and what an amazing phenomenal woman she has become, I feel my nachas (pride) harden into a loaf of intimidation and resentment. Just like that. Because apparently while I’ve finally embraced my Jewish Identity, I now have latent self-hating mediocre parenting/overeducated under-knowledgeable/worthy citizen of the planet issues.

I just don’t share Mayim’s insatiable thirst for scientific and Jewish knowledge. I’m a feminist that prefers to dress funky instead of frum (pious). I do not have such clear strong opinions about what my family and I eat, nor do I subscribe to one specific parenting style or educational philosophy. I will never ever understand neuroscience. I do, however, relate to this quote of hers:

People say to me, ‘Oh, you’ve really got it all together.’ I don’t see it that way at all, not at all. What I represent is struggle and learning.

–Mayim Bialik, Hadassah Magazine

Oh yes, I relate to that. And today? I’d rather be a Bette Midler with my own wings any day.

I’m Terribly Important Around Here

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 15:35:00 +0000

I don’t know if you heard but I was named:

Least Flexible Child to Have Ever Taken Ballet Class In The History of Mankind

Most Ethical Person for the Treatment of Citric Acid Candy

Chairman of The Board of Federal Can’t-Quote-Anything

Top Representative for Parents Against Fake Crying

American Chin Association Posterwoman

Qualifying Member of Mothers Swearing like Sailors Among Girlfriends

Midwest Internet People Honoree

(awarded) A One-Hour Chip for Same-Status-Update-Multiple-Platforms Recovery. Chip was subsequently retracted…

Babble’s Funniest Top 50 Twitter Mom of 2011. Thank you Babble! Most shocks are not pleasant, but this one sure was. So honored to be included among these awesome tweeps (tweeps is annoying for “person who tweets” which is annoying for “person who uses Twitter”).

Also, Some ridiculously overdue thanks to:

To the lovely and talented Liz from Peace, Love, Guacamole for giving me the closest thing I will get to a Sanskrit Tattoo:

Never mind the fact that Husband has a co-worker on his project right now named Tami Taylor. If you don’t know which Tami Taylor this refers to, you have not watched Friday Night Lights and you need to rectify that immediately. Thanks Liz!! You should watch Liz’s beautiful reading “The Cord” from LTYM:Austin last Spring.

Also, thank you to Lisa from Seeking Elevation for this award. She’s smart, funny, and a talented writer. Check out her blog.

Have a great weekend everyone.

Ann’s Audition Voyage

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 11:00:00 +0000

I’m living proof that quantum physics exists. I voyaged through a TimeWarpWormHolePortalChute last Monday.

It began with a call from a high school friend of mine. JD is a successful TV actor, and we see each other every couple years when he comes through town. You might know from his recurring role on Two and a Half Men, and definitely from Smart Guy. Anyway, go meet JD. He’s uber-talented, and he has an incredible resume, despite the glaring omission of “Drama Club Co-President with Ann Krinsky, 1992.” You might’ve seen him recently on The Mentalist.

So JD is back in our hometown shooting thirteen episodes of a new original series called Battleground State and I receive a call I’d waited for 15 years ago: “Hey Ann, I’m directing a new series and I think I have a part you could play.”

AHhhhhhhaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh…echo. echo? echo! (me, falling through the wormhole)

Suddenly I’m wearing my Mom’s pink button down blouse (yes, blouse), pearl studs, high-waisted dress slacks (I said slacks), and pumps (pumps!) I had to dust before wearing. The babysitter comes, I teeter into my car, and check to confirm that my hair has maintained “well-groomed conservative senate staffer” instead of reverting back to “John Bon Jovi 1986.” I don’t feel like myself, and yet something’s familiar.

Then it hits me: I’m dressed exactly as I did as an office temp worker fifteen years ago in Chicago, leaving my day job to get to an audition. I’ve got my workstation temporarily covered, too much make-up on, and nothing in my teeth (for the moment). Things feel eerily similar as I’m spiraling through the portal chute, save for the station wagon and my too tight waistband…

I arrive to the production facility for my audition and there is a waiting room and people have headshots, and now I’m living out the anxiety dream portion of my Timewarp voyage. HEADSHOTS. I didn’t forget a headshot, I forgot about the existence of headshots, which is especially bizarre considering that I happen to have a good one right now. It’s just, well, SURPRISE, I’m not an actor so I don’t blow it up to 8x10, staple my resume to it, and hand it out to people anymore. For all I know, no one does that now. The actor probably just nods and a hologram headshot beams into the casting director’s frontal lobe. I’ve worked steadily in the theater of the absurd for the past eight years, but neglected to update my resume with my recent role of “Minute Monitor” (i.e. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES TO GET PANTS OR MOMMY WILL GO LUCHA LIBRE), my staring role presiding over “Consequence Tribunal,” and most notably my recurring role in “Sitting and Writing on my Buttress.”

To further this anxiety dream break with reality, JD seemed to have experienced a sudden assistant-coach/your insurance guy pattern baldness. We hugged and chatted about our kids and only after my audition did I see this video that would’ve really been helpful to have seen prior to laying eyes on his fresh scalp yarmulke.

Well, now JD knows my totally cool with your new hairdo/not even noticing the drastic change in your appearance/definitely not going to mention it expression.

Anyway.

I had to slate for the casting director. Is that what they call it? Say my name and where I’m from into the camera and (silently) OH MY GOD I HAVE EXACTLY TWENTY MINUTES TO GET BACK TO THE SWITCHBOARD AT HOPKINS HEALTHCENTER--I MEAN HOPKINS HEALTHCARE--AND IF I MAKE THAT MISTAKE ONE MORE TIME WHEN THE CEO CALLS HE SAID HE’LL FIRE ME.

I audition and it’s over and I try to walk out of the building, but I go the wrong way for a little stroll. I finally find the exit, realize I left my purse in the audition room, then learn that leaving your purse in the audition room is an LA cliché—an excuse to go back in and maybe hear what they said about you with your strategically-placed secret purse recording device. All I have in my purse are some car keys dappled with sugarless gum, two Hotwheels, and 500 bobby pins. Obviously I’m poised to WIN.

I retrieve my purse and head for the door, but first I hold it open for the good looking hip LA industry guy burdened down with packages. It helps to have your pants pulled up as high as possible in this scenario, by the way, and belted at the ribcage.

I arrive home to release myself from my pants and from the wormhole and just as I think the anxiety dream is over I notice a fluffy wad of cat hair on the cuff of my pants from my not-sufficiently dusted heels. I HAVE TIME TRAVELED AND RETURNED AND THIS WAD OF CAT HAIR IS EVIDENCE OF MY JOURNYING! And my stellar housekeeping! And my confident take-no-prisoners demeanor as I walked the wrong way out of the audition, without my purse, wearing an anklet of cat hair!

I wait for my rejection call for 48 hours, and hear nothing and start to doubt the veracity of my portal voyage entirely. Then while talking to my girlfriend on my landline about how I bombed the audition, the casting director leaves me a message on my cellphone offering me the part. It’s very small and very fun and if I don’t end up on the cutting room floor I will share it. But first I have to shoot it. On set. Memorized. Among professionals. Wish me Bon Voyage. And Bon Lint Brush.

Have you ever fallen through a worm hole? Did you emerge unscathed but looking like a cat hair Clydesdale? Please share!

[VIDEO] Third Blogiversary: “Mazel Tov”

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 10:01:00 +0000

If you don’t see the video, click here. I love you guys. Thanks.

Violence Unsilenced

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 20:22:00 +0000

I’m taking a break my usual shtick to announce that I just accepted an invitation to sit on the Board of Directors (along with a phenomenal group of women) for a newly incorporated non-profit cause, Violence Unsilenced. Many people have given their own personal stories on VU, and many many others have commented. Still others have donated countless pro bono hours to bring Violence Unsilenced to this moment—the re-launch taking place today.

Writing humor is some of my favorite work, but I also believe passionately in the cause of giving voice to people’s experiences and connecting people with resources (as some of you might know by my social work background and my own project, Listen To Your Mother.) By reading others' accounts we gain validation of our own experiences, survivors know they are not alone, and supporters of survivors expand their perspective. In short, I believe that sharing stories makes our world a better place, and I especially believe in the potential of Executive Director Maggie Ginsberg-Schutz to take this organization to a new level--expanding VU's reach and improving domestic/interpersonal violence advocacy and awareness.

Many of you know Maggie from when she used to write on her amazing blog Okay Fine Dammit. While she no longer blogs, Maggie continues building her award-winning freelance journalism career in publications across the Midwest. Inspired by her interviews for a piece she did about domestic violence for Madison Magazine in 2008, Maggie started a website for survivors of interpersonal violence where they could share their stories anonymously and safely, and gain support from readers.

I’m closing comments here to encourage you to go over and congratulate Maggie on this huge milestone for Violence Unsilenced. While you’re there, take the pledge and grab a button. VU’s success is proof-positive that words matter in the blogosphere and resonate far beyond. Thank you for yours. Go use them to help someone else today.

Ann’s First Hate Mail!

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 14:18:00 +0000

(real email, received 9/26/11)

Hello,

I would like to ask you to please never write for CollegeHumor.com again. Not to be offensive, as I'm sure you're a better writer than I, but can we drop the "humorist" part of the "stay at home humorist" slogan? I'm sure you're very witty and maybe even slightly humorous at times, but the CollegeHumor demographic is not your forte. Not even a little bit. Should you doubt me, a quick trip to the comments of your September 15th article, "My Eighth Grade Recital: I'm Not Going to Cry This Time." I go to CollegeHumor to find low brow pictures and unsophisticated, yet funny articles. I'm not quite sure of what your article was trying to do, but it appears to have missed its mark widely. In summary, please stay to the articles on motherhood, which is a subject that is about as far away from the CollegeHumor demographic as well....the recitals of eighth grade girls.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Dan ***ker

ESEC/TIP Teacher Dan ***ker

[ a lot of identifying information to contact his employer with ]
P. R. China

***

Hello!

Thank you for reading and reflecting on my September 15th article "My Eighth Grade Recital: I'm Not Going to Cry This Time" at CollegeHumor.com, and especially for taking the time to then click on my profile, click to my website, find my email and truth-tell me so so good.

Your timing is uncanny. Did you even know the Jewish New Year is upon us? The doors are closing, Dan ***ker and the time for forgiveness and repentance awaits. Of course you did not mean to offend me, Dan. For everyone knows that a “no offense” qualifier clause adds courtesy and denies a person any exceptionable response to even the crappiest sentiment—like adding “Just Kidding!” after “I don’t think I ever loved you.”

Anyway, who can blame you for being upset about my “slogan”-emblazoned right there upon the masthead of my personal website--that you took the time out of your busy fostering-of-students schedule to visit today? Humorist HAH! If that isn’t some inexcusable creative license-taking on my part, well I don’t know what is. May I apologize for my banner hubris, and then may I suggest “shenanigans” as a conciliatory gesture? As my body will fast on Yom Kippur—the upcoming Day of Atonement—so shall my banner rend her slogan, drop her humorist façade, and become the Stay-at-home-shenanagist. In Hebrew we say Mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa!

I wish I could stop here and ask for your funny-barometer mercy, Dan ~~Wan~~ker, but then there is that whole issue of the CollegeHumor.com demographic that is not my forte. Honestly, Dan, ever since toddlerhood I’ve considered funny humans age 18-34 with penises my forte, and I’m thankful someone finally called me on my bullshit. I mean if the editors who asked me to be a regular contributor weren’t going to step-up, than for God’s sake let ESEC/TIP Teacher Dan, spokesman for all 15,000 people who read my article—nay spokesman for all 300 million CollegeHumor.com views--show me that mark and where I missed it widely. If you could see me now, I’m tearing my clothes and pounding my chest over the content I so audaciously copied into that form inviting anyone with an account to contribute, which collegehumor.com then used to pollute that space where your low brow pictures and unsophisticated, yet funny articles should’ve been. Webspace is finite, and I took up some of yours.

Dan, you might not realize this but I think of you as a warrior. I’ve never gotten a letter like this before, and maybe the hundreds of thousands of other people who’ve read my humor writing online lack the expertise and generosity to reach out and guide me like a true teacher does. Think about the 14,999 others who read my CollegeHumor article. Perhaps some others read a few lines, scoffed, and went on with their day. Only a man with a true love of learning—and a demigod of funny articles and not the recitals of 8th grade girls--would sacrifice his very valuable and expensive screen time today to lend me his unique expertise of what is humor, what is not, and where the surely very witty and maybe even slightly humorous are not welcome.

Thank you, Dan ~~Fock~~er. May the new year be a sweet one for you and yours. May you be inscribed in the book of life and also in those esteemed and far away Articles Of Motherhood.

You’re welcome.

--Ann

A Prayer for Anthropologie

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 00:23:00 +0000

Our Father who art in the Anthropologie clearance section, hear my prayer.

Give me strength to know kimono jumpsuit from gaucho clownpant & the wisdom to avoid both.

Lead me not to the flowers giving birth to flowers celebrating with yet more flowers shrug.

Deliver me from “whimsy” dear Lord, and please whisper a cautionary “tablecloth” in turn.

Remind me of the unintentional-dickey debacle of tunic 2008. Guide me from anything resembling a pinafore. This chin needs no decorative lobster bib accent, Dear God. You made my chin. I shouldn't have to tell you.

If a frock calls for a matching bonnet, Lord on High, please give me a sign--like that one time you sent a guy to yell at me to get my Holly Hobby ass out of his parking space. And if I ever use the word “frock” out loud, smite me Almighty, for I know not what I speak.

Release me from ruffles, as they only lead to a pigeon-chested bloomered baby-butt where two breasts once reclined.

Also,

Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow because maybe I'm rocking a soothsayer turban and that is not okay. Don't walk behind me, or I might get too jaunty with a Feline Fedora.

Just walk beside me and be my friend and tell me if this this newsboy makes my head look like a twist cone.

Your kingdom come, your will be done. On earth as it is in heaven—in either case I probably should not wear anything resembling an Obi Wan cape. Lead me not into jester prints. Deliver me from frills-on-hips skirts.

Now I lay me down in a dressing room heap, I pray the lord my dignity to keep. If I die before I wake, I won't be surprised because I can't get out of this wrap sweater coat dress potholder anyway.

Amen.

Where, Oh Where Did Our Fun Aunt Ann Go?

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 15:50:00 +0000

Have you seen Fun Aunt Ann? That isn’t her slumped over in the green plastic Adirondack lawn chair, buried in her smart phone, and drinking PBR from a CROCS beer cozy, is it?

Impossible.

No. The Fun Aunt Ann I know gave piggy back rides, led niece and nephew conga parades, and topped the VIP list of your children’s birthday parties as a guest/performer/village idiot.

Fun Aunt Ann would not only talk to your toddler on the phone, but she’d join you for Gymboree! No children of her own, no matter—she put those years of movement, vocal and tap dance training to good use, sashaying across the mats and giving the “hello” song a full belt. She’d babysit for free, shuffling your little one off to buffalo while singing Papa Can You Hear me and other Yentl power-ballads. She was a tiny team player--your favorite babysitter, your “Fun Aunt Ann”—one of the gang! Never mind the pit stains, boys and girls, nothing to see here.

Remember how she would pine over photos of your little ones, and then flip out her own cascade of cat snapshots from her wallet-folio? Only black and white candids of course—never gauche. She loved and played with creatures great and small—awake, alive, joyful!

Young Fun Aunt Ann (also her Mandarin name) spent every family gathering entertaining her cousins. The only thing she wanted more than to sit at the kids table, was a younger sibling/live Barbie-head of her own, with hair she could style, adoration she could hoard, and supporting roles she could cast.

As a camp counselor she never needed the “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU” cue to cheer louder. She always went above and beyond with her charges—acting out all the parts in their bedtime stories, Marco-ing to their Polos while blind and waterlogged, and choreographing Erasure lip synch routines for the Camp show Puttin’ On The Yidz. For the first five days of summer and/or until she found her summer boyfriend.

So where is she now? Why--when you just asked her to watch Little Maddy--did you find Little Maddy in the pantry eating raw polenta with a Tonka Truck? Why, when her son’s peers come around does she always play the Everyone Out Of The House game? Why does her expression at the bounce house say “Closed for Business” rather than BOO-YAH ? Where’s the song and dance? Where’s the joie de vivre? For God’s sake, where are the Heads Shoulders Knees and Toes seventy five times with your Madeleine doll?**

Well.

Fun Aunt Ann had her own kids. She loves being a mom to two and exactly two children. Maybe someday—provided ample pasture to roam, sleep, and feed uninterrupted--Fun Aunt Ann will emerge as Fun Gran Ann.

But for now? Don’t disturb the ~~Monkeys~~ Mommy.

**Apologies to Madeleine who has no nose, and the last thing she needed was Fun Aunt Ann singing EYES AND EARS AND MOUTH AND…UMM..??? to her 75 times

False Positive

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 22:52:00 +0000

When I was in TV ad sales years ago, I convinced my fellow inventory coordinators (The People In Your media Neighborhood that shuffle around :30 pods of air time) that Nobody Doesn’t Like Sara Lee was not only incorrect due to the double-negative, but that Nobody Does It Like Sara Lee made way more sense and therefore comprised the correct tagline. I felt confident in my logic, buoyed by years of eating frozen bricks of pound cake sliver by sliver through an intricate “evening out” process--never mind the fact that many of my coworkers had not liked Sara Lee longer than I had. I was wrong. It turned out Nobody Doesn’t Like Sara Lee. But being wrong was not so hard for me as that momentary responsibility I felt to the several people I’d wrongfully convinced I was so right. Before my auto Google-reflex became available, I was a walking malapropism waving my botched baked-goods slogan proudly.

One year and a gargantuan promotion later, I breezed through the revolving doors of the historic office building at 35 East Wacker Drive in downtown Chicago. Decked out with my beverage accessory in my right hand (coffee or water, depending on the outfit) and swinging my big girl purse in time with the click-clack of my Parade of Shoes, I made my way across the Lobby’s marble expanse. Working in this tower--with its granite wedding cake façade and Al Capone history--made me feel 27 years-grown up and tres young professional Chicago. I might not have liked the work itself, but I played the role of ad executive prodigy with aplomb (pauses to google aplomb). I met my coworker Keith at our elevator bank, who shared the news that a plane had just flown into the World Trade Center. We exchanged sobering glances, shrugged, and assumed it was probably “just” another prop jet—as a similar incident had taken place in prior months.

My 23-year-old assistant Mary greeted me in our suite with the unnerved eyes of a 6th grader about to ask the bus driver if in fact she was on the right bus, because I usually get off at the Town and Country Gas for Hebrew School and it’s getting dark and there’s no Town and Country Gas. She told me what I already knew about a plane crashing into The World Trade Center, and reported that one of the towers had already fallen.

“Fallen? Fallen down? That’s Impossible.” I didn’t just disregard her information, I explained the impossibility—“Have you seen those building? They’re enormous.” I was sure Mary somehow misunderstood. Positive.

My husband and I had recently stood on the observation deck, my grandparents celebrated their 50th anniversary with a party I attended as a child at The World Trade Center’s then “Vista Hotel.” No no no, you must have it wrong, impossible. Oh, the confidence of a 27 year old with a title and too much mahogany.

Settling into my desk with the view of The Chicago River, I turned on my television. A requirement of an ad sales executive, I needed to have my TV on all day to see what brands aired their commercials and where. Only I would find myself all too often and twenty minutes later—engrossed in Rosie O’Donnell’s effusing over Tom Cruise or Bebe Neuwirth, and neglecting to notice our competitor’s ads—or any ads whatsoever.

Rosie wasn’t on that morning, and all the advertisements were blacked out. The second tower was falling—the unfathomable truth unfolding live on my monitor.

I’ve never written about September 11th. I don’t have sufficient words or a first-person connection to the attacks from which to appropriately memorialize the enormity of the losses, or from which to extrapolate my perspective of how that day changed our world, or our generation.

When I remember the terrorism of that September morning ten years ago, and the complex emotions that followed and still linger—the overwhelming fear, helplessness, rage and sadness--I also remember my naive certainty of that time in my very small world. I shudder at my ability to inspire other people’s confidence in my own limited views at that age. I felt so sure about What I Knew and freely espoused this knowledge as advice or *cough* wisdom *cough* to the people in my life: I knew what made a good marriage and which couples would definitely last and why the others wouldn’t, I knew the difference between Democrats and Republicans and what kind of people voted which way, I knew about the three daughters I’d one day have, and about the timelessness of the enormous overstuffed “chair and a half.” I felt positive about nobody doing it like Sara Lee, and about the World Trade Center standing firm.

I’m not sure I’ve felt positive about anything since.

***

On this 10th anniversary, my heart goes out to everyone traumatized either first-hand or secondarily on September 11th, 2001. To the thousands of lives lost, and the hundreds of thousands more damaged irreparably, to the survivors and their fallen—I will say Kaddish in honor of you and yours this Sunday.

Yartzheit Candle

Kill Joy

noreply@blogger.com (Ann Imig) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 13:10:00 +0000

Fifteen years ago in a spat over who did and who did not show up to launder dirty schmattes from a cast-load of Annatevkans, my Fiddler On The Roof castmate and fellow costume crew member looked me in the eye and said

“Ann, you are a kill joy.”

It took me aback!

Especially because what he actually said was

“Ann, you shit on everything beautiful.”

While this comment—voiced in full round tones of Thespian anger—occurred in the heat of a costume crew mutiny, I could not deny the truth at its core.

I do not come from people necessarily described as “fun loving” “carefree” or “free spirited.” We of the planning, preparing, and rational-minded decision-makers
“enjoy ourselves,” and have a “perfectly nice time.” We aren’t known to throw much caution to the wind, and when we do, we do so cautiously.

However, when Maggie invited me and the boys as her guests on a last-minute mega waterpark outing Tuesday, I responded in the affirmative. I didn’t hesitate. Maggie knows me, and she later admitted to some surprise at my enthusiastic and unwavering “Yes! Okay! We’re In!!” even if I did follow it up with “GOD HELP US ALL.”

Prior to yesterday, the words “water park” meant the following to me and my people of non-spontaneous, non thrill-seeking, non adventurous stock: 105 degrees, one hour lines, too many mammals in too many half-shirts, and seventh circle of hell vertigo accompanied by overheated, whining, mini treat-mongers. I’d never taken my kids to The Wisconsin Dells. My last visit to a water park occurred in the late 1980s--a birthday party invitation accepted out of my desire to keep up with my fun-loving, carefree, free-spirited friends who craved heights and traveling at high speeds, as opposed to say, the lazy river or “I really just want to lay out so I’ll hang right here on this chair next to your parents.” See also 8th grade ski trips and the snack bar.

But I knew taking my kids to an alternate water universe for the day would thrill them beyond anything they could imagine—for the fun they would have, but also because I said yes. I SAID YES! WITHOUT HESITATING! TO EXTREME FUN! with them, and not parallel to them while trying to get 25 other things done.

Tuesday brought cold and rain, and we brought ten people in two vehicles to the biggest and emptiest parking lot since Wally World. Instead of foreboding, this meant one thing--no lines. We plunked down our refundable deposits for wetsuits and spent the day twirling on tubes, plunging down people-chutes, and getting power-washed while free-falling in sensory-deprivation darkness, only to get regurgitated out of an Anaconda mouth.

“So how about that dinosaur head?” Maggie asked me after our two-woman plummet down the Water-Boarding Black Cobra Spiral of Death Not Necessarily for Creaky Grown People Especially Not Backwards ™

“What dinosaur head?”

“You didn’t see that enormous dinosaur head?”

“You mean when I wasn’t crying and screaming SAVE ME JAYSUS?”

But it was fun. Each of us did something a little scary, and hugely increased our fun quotient as a direct result. I got a day off from screen-time warden/sugar monitor/inappropriate-determiner, and the boys got a day off from my nagging, procrastinating, and doling out consequences. I saw more smiles and hugs from my kids yesterday than I have all summer, and I couldn’t stop smiling watching them smiling. I felt so proud of us for challenging ourselves a little outside out of our narrow comfort zones, and I could tell my boys were impressed knowing Mommy got vomited out of an anaconda.

Even if this kill joy had her eyes shut.

***

Congratulations to Cheryl from Deckside Thoughts, winner of the giveaway on my last post: Lela Davidson’s book of essays “Blacklisted By The PTA.” Cheryl please email me (annimig@yahoo.com) so I can give Lela your mailing address.